


Death or Love

by Ser_Thirst_A_Lot



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But a Good Bro, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Family Feels, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hashirama is a good bro, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, M/M, Self-Sacrifice, Senju Hashirama Needs to Hug (everyone around him), Senju Tobirama Needs a Hug, Uchiha Madara Needs a Hug, he has a darker side and is overprotective as fuck, plot with a little porn i guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22148242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ser_Thirst_A_Lot/pseuds/Ser_Thirst_A_Lot
Summary: Tobirama remembers the times when Madara wanted nothing but to avenge his little brother, cursing Tobirama’s very existence any chance he got and vowing to kill him in the most violent way possible. He remembers Madara, who had, horrified, witnessed Tobirama attempt Edo Tensei for the first time, distraught, lost, and desperate, managing to summon a mangled version of a deer from a place no one and nothing should be able to return from.The way Madara looked at him, behaved around him changed that day, and Tobirama can’t quite decide whether it’s a blessing or a curse.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara, background Senju Hashirama/Uzumaki Mito
Comments: 68
Kudos: 489





	1. for all your weeping

**Author's Note:**

> I am SO out of practice. Like fucking hell what am I even doing with?? words??? h e l p? But I’ve fallen into the sweet hell that is MadaTobi since summer and there’s about 20 WIPs about them that I’ve started over this time that I’m too afraid to finish and/or start posting because THEY’RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH orz
> 
> So I’ve finally decided to just go with it because sharing stuff is always the best motivator to get it done. And to (re)learn in the process. 
> 
> This was inspired both by my musings on how the hell these two would get together with Izuna dead and spurred on by one of [fangirlingpuggle's](https://fangirlingpuggle.tumblr.com/post/187888262254/quick-madatobi-fic-prompt-idea-i-just-hadau-where) prompts, namely:  
>  _AU where Tobirama makes the Edo Tensei for Izuna. Because he thinks/knows Madara hates him and will never forget him for killing Izuna and is just trying to bring him back so Madara can be happy. Either Madara finding out about this either while he’s still in Konoha and it being a sweet happy fic or him finding out when he’s fighting Tobirama in the war/ just after Tobirama dead and the angst from that._
> 
> I decide to go both ways with a massive angst fest and then a sweet and happy resolution, so. Do beware of the angst, but I swear there’s a happy ending to come, I can’t leave my precious idiots without one. 
> 
> And so, ~~LET THERE BE ANGST~~ , onto the story! Updates once, maybe twice a week if I kick myself hard enough.

_For all your weeping,  
_ _Waking and sleeping,  
_ _Death comes to reaping  
_ _And takes away._

[Anima Anceps](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anima-anceps/)

* * *

Tobirama’s hands shake as he places the flowers on the gravestone.

He blames it on the weather.

Cold autumn winds howl around the graveyard, icy raindrops following their stead, hitting his skin painfully, permeating through clothing.

He folds his arms in a vain attempt to keep his hands warm—and steady—but try as he might to drive away the guilt, his face is suddenly wet with not only raindrops, but swiftly cooling tears.

He blames it on the wind irritating his eyes.

He is fine.

Perfectly fine.

 _Uchiha Izuna_ , the engraving reads, and the name is razor sharp as it pierces through Tobirama’s mind, reminding him of the pain he has wrought, the chaos that came after his split-second decision to execute the jutsu that led to Izuna’s demise. Truly, he had expected his foe to be faster; he hated being wrong.

Tobirama’s whole body shivers this time, memories of the battle flashing before his eyes, clear as if it happened not years ago, but yesterday.

And now…

He lets out a shaky breath, remembering, too, the way Madara would treat him after the fact. Once he’d gone back on his wish to see either Hashirama or Tobirama killed and agreed to create the village with them—a childhood dream come true that brought Hashirama immense happiness but filled Madara with nothing but spite.

Madara.

Madara, who once wanted nothing but to avenge his little brother, cursing Tobirama’s very existence any chance he got and vowing to kill him in the most violent way possible. Madara, who had, horrified, witnessed Tobirama attempt Edo Tensei for the first time, distraught, and lost, and desperate, managing to summon a mangled version of a deer from a place no one should be able to return from.

The way Madara looked at him, behaved around him changed that day, and Tobirama can’t quite decide whether it’s a blessing or a curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titles are from various poems that strike my fancy, mostly authored by the criminally underrated Algernon Charles Swinburne, and a piece by Ben Jonson closer to the end.


	2. dead men rise up never

_From too much love of living,  
_ _From hope and fear set free,  
_ _We thank with brief thanksgiving  
_ _Whatever gods may be  
_ _That no life lives for ever;  
_ _That dead men rise up never;  
_ _That even the weariest river  
_ _Winds somewhere safe to sea._

[Garden of Proseprine](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45288/the-garden-of-proserpine)

* * *

That day, just over a year ago, the world is a different, darker place.

 _Tobirama’s_ world is a darker one, his mind distraught and wrangled from one too many nights working on what would surely have to be declared a kinjutsu, a summoning so intricate he wondered whether the initial development of the technique would kill him, what with the dangers simple experimentation on bringing back the dead entailed.

Not that that’s ever stopped him before.

Especially when what he’s working on is a convenient answer to a lot of his problems. A potential way to right the wrong he did and rid himself of the burden of Hashirama’s disappointment, of Madara’s hate. And the science of it—his ever-curious mind can’t quite resist the pull of the unknown, and if only for that, Tobirama would attempt this.

It’s perfectly logical, too, or so he tells himself, nursing the wounds and struggling against the mental exhaustion borne of dozens of failed attempts at resurrection and too little sleep. It bothers him little, the pain, the discomfort and weariness; he is a shinobi, and he can’t quite imagine his life ever being a truly happy one. Ever since he was a toddler, he’d been called a tool, an instrument honed for bringing war and destruction, and even with Butsuma gone and Hashirama trying to convince him otherwise, Tobirama doesn’t believe he’s capable of change.

But he can make things right. If only he had a little more time…

Madara finds him, though, a couple of days too soon, when Tobirama’s so close to getting the damn jutsu to work semi-properly. He finds Tobirama engulfed by the high of experimentation, so much so that his sensing dulls and he doesn’t notice Madara approaching his hideout in the woods with a confused, worried tint to his chakra.

_No._

The way Madara looks at him is… strange.

 _No, no,_ no _._

Tobirama stares back at him as he feels Madara’s presence through the haze of chakra exhaustion and curses himself for yet another one of his too many missteps.

_Too soon._

“It’s imperfect,” Tobirama says in a rush, the harsh winter winds howling over his words, making them seem almost like a whisper. “I tried, for you,” he says a little louder, watching Madara’s eyes widen, his lips part as his face twisted into a mask of utter shock. "So you could bring Izuna back.”

The wind howls through the brief silence.

“Why?”

“So you can be happy.” Tobirama’s voice breaks on an ill-suppressed sob. There’s too much emotion piled up for him to keep a calm state of mind; he doesn’t remember the last time he’d eaten or slept, his hands are bruised and bloodied and the sheer number of mangled animal corpses he’d seen in one night has his mind in a frenzy. “So Anija can be.”

Tobirama digs his nails into his palms, trying to will his shaking to stop, trying to prevent tears from falling.

_Too soon._

He expects anger. The usual insults and stinging words of blame directed at him, for killing Madara’s brother, for making this dream of peace a worthless, soulless endeavor—Madara never fails to remind both him and Hashirama of this. And Tobirama is tired of seeing his brother’s eyes grow sad with grief for a fractured friendship. Tired of being the cause of such pain, tired of being powerless to change the past and undo the effects of death.

No matter how much he tries, Tobirama remains useless. But perhaps, if Madara gives him just a little more time…

“It’ll never be right,” he says, “I can’t complete it, I can’t—”

Madara moves and Tobirama expects nothing less than a blow to the face, flinching as Madara falls instead to his knees before him, wrapping a hand around his shoulders. Directs him to release the jutsu and draws him in, holding him, his embrace soft and unaggressive.

Tobirama frowns, unable to wrap his head around what’s happening.

It’s odd that Madara doesn’t say anything, simply holding him in silence, as Tobirama is wreaked with sobbing, an embarrassing display of emotion that his father had never managed to fully eradicate from him.

_Failure._

“When was the last time you slept?” Madara asks.

“Some time ago.”

“That’s not a proper answer.” A pause. “Hashirama will be upset.”

Tobirama’s breath stutters.

“I know.”

Upset because broke broken a promise, went too far and _failed_ —again, and possibly antagonized Madara— _again_ —who was supposed to see a jutsu close to completion, not the pathetic excuse for a reanimation technique Tobirama is now casting.

And yet Madara doesn’t seem angry, his chakra a whirlpool of _cold_ and _hesitant_ instead.

It was akin to a strange dream.

Tobirama doesn’t register much of what happens after, except the soft yet insistent hands guiding him to release the jutsu, then holding him up as they stand and move away from the seal.

It’s surreal.

The warmth of another’s bed as gentle arms put Tobirama to sleep.

The glint of the Sharingan before him—and Tobirama expects to be put under a genjutsu meant to torture, but the vision never comes, and he is instead eased into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's to me hoping the writing gets better and more coherent as the story progresses. I'd love to hear any of your thoughts on how the story is going, and criticism (of the constructive kind) would be massively helpful :3


	3. everything but sleep

_I am tired of tears and laughter,  
And men that laugh and weep;  
Of what may come hereafter  
For men that sow to reap:  
I am weary of days and hours,  
Blown buds of barren flowers,  
Desires and dreams and powers  
And everything but sleep._

[Garden of Proseprine](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45288/the-garden-of-proserpine)

* * *

He can’t sleep.

It’s not an unusual state for Madara—the iron grip of insomnia has scarcely released him since childhood. Sharingan-induced nightmares plague him more often than not and constant worries keep him awake, thrashing and turning until he feels numbed by the waves of panic coursing through his veins. Worries about the war, the survival of his clan, of his family—of his brother.

A brother that was no more, gratitude of the Senju now sleeping in Madara’s own room, in his bed. Madara still has no idea why he’d brought him here, a decision made so rashly while he was affected by the crippling shock and sheer terror at seeing the jutsu the madman had produced.

 _It’s imperfect,_ he’d said.

As if anything could, truly and completely bring back the dead. Only perhaps the Rinnegan, which seemed itself to be nothing more than a fable of the ancient times, but Senju Tobirama had attempted, had _dared_ to bring this power into the realm of possibility.

Madara shudders as he recalls the sight: a scared, trembling, confused animal materialized piece by piece, held together by a twisted, stifling sort of power that made Madara’s insides run cold. He sighs, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to calm himself.

_I tried, for you._

The words ring in his head like a damning curse, and Madara struggles to figure out why they bother him so much. He should be glad to see Tobirama in such a state—weak and desperate, exhausted and so vulnerable that Madara would have had no trouble at all killing him on the spot. It should make him happy that Tobirama suffers like this, experiences an ounce of the pain Madara endured—still does—in the aftermath of Izuna’s death.

He opens his eyes to look at the Senju again. _Demon_ , he’d been called by the Uchiha. _Mad genius_ , a moniker bestowed upon him for his habit of creating increasingly lethal jutsu every time their clans faced off in battle. If only they knew. Madara huffs out a chuckle. For all the war had been between their clans, the _extent_ this man goes to has always been regarded as both terrifying and impressive.

Tobirama is deeply asleep, seeming peaceful for once. It’s a rare look on him, given the deep bags under his eyes and the faint lines of stress marring his far-too-young face. Madara watches him sleep, a touch of envy tugging at him as he feels physically unable to make himself rest as well.

_So you can be happy._

He wishes, sometimes, that he could get his mind to shut up, but the damned phrase keeps echoing through his head, making him feel all kinds of strange and _wrong_. It’s unfortunate, too, that he’d been so shocked to find Tobirama with a resurrected fucking animal that his Sharingan has unwittingly activated, and the scene was branded into his memory.

Madara had never imagined he would see the Demon of the Senju cry.

_So Anija can be._

Madara had never considered that Tobirama could ever feel anything resembling sympathy towards his brother’s murderer. That he would ever lay a hand on him and not strike to attack.

But seeing—no, _feeling_ —raw emotion and guilt and regret swell in his chakra as he sobbed on his knees in the barren clearing Madara had found him in, that had given Madara pause. Enough pause for him to against his instinct to hurt, instead freezing in place as he watched the broken man before him, who was forever supposed to be nothing but a cold-blooded, heartless murderer in Madara’s eyes.

_Aren’t we all?_

And there’s the treacherous thought he’d never let himself dwell on too long before. Because it brings with itself unwanted thoughts and realizations, yet more questions that Madara would rather not deal with, like—would someone truly unfeeling be thus affected by his actions?

Madara lets out a low growl, covering his face with his hands.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had he brought him here? What mental disease had compelled him to do so? Why was he feeling so conflicted?

_Why couldn’t he sleep?_

The Senju will be out for a few hours at least, and, exhausted from his most recent bout of insomnia and the disturbing occurrence in the woods, Madara, too, desperately needs the rest. There are the two different strong sedatives he’d taken just before, if only to help himself relax and stay still, but he can’t stop fidgeting as he sits in his chair, his mind going haywire with the lingering shock, questions, the unrelenting feeling of—of _pity_ at seeing Tobirama this vulnerable.

 _It’s wrong_ , he thinks again, perhaps only trying to convince himself. Wrong that he’d brought him here. Wrong that he had comforted him, kept him from going into what seemed like an impending panic attack. Perhaps he could have killed him then and there and the instance would be dismissed as an accident. Or lack of attention due to lack of sleep. Chakra exhaustion due to the obviously dangerous jutsu he was attempting. Madara tries and fails to convince himself that _that_ is what Tobirama would have deserved. But then—

_So Anija can be…_

Happy.

He knew Hashirama wasn’t, truly. Always so saddened by the way Madara would act out far too often, taking the construction of their shared dream as a fool’s errand, a desperate attempt to protect his clan, nothing more. And with the rift between Madara and his own clan growing, the whole endeavor had begun to seem like an exercise in futility.

Until—

_So you can be happy._

He can’t fathom Tobirama caring about such a thing, trying to help Madara of all the people in this stupid village. Tobirama hates the Uchiha, hates _Madara_ and that’s always been the status quo.

Is it not?

Madara tries to keep his breathing even.

He’d been willing to risk gods knows how much attempting an impossible jutsu to bring Izuna back to life.

Yet another realization that has him feeling sick to the stomach.

Madara knows he won’t be able to sleep now for a long while. Perhaps days, until his body simply collapses from the stress. He can’t— _won’t_ stop thinking about this because it doesn’t make any fucking sense, and he desperately wants it to. He wishes he could go back and never see Tobirama at this low. It’s so much easier to hate, and to hurt, to have a singular focus of blame and spite to dwell on.

_So you can be happy._

Madara tries, honestly does, to resettle into that mindset, then recalls at the crumpled, weakened form of the Senju on his knees and simply… can’t.

His musings are interrupted by a groan coming from the Senju as he turns onto his side. His face scrunches up in a tense frown even as his eyes remain closed. His breathing quickens, and he jerks again, movements stiff as he battles some nightmare or other that he is seeing.

Strange.

He isn’t supposed to be having dreams, and his sleep was to last quite a long time yet; Madara’s genjutsu should have ensured that.

Then—all hell breaks loose.

Tobirama’s chakra lashes out in uneven waves, even as it’s still stretched thin, its blue glow thrashing about him in all directions as his eyes snap wide open, pupils dilated and gaze unseeing.

“Itama,” he gasps, “Kawarama…”

Madara breath hitches as he stands, hands reaching out to the Senju but not touching, frozen and shaking while he panics about _what the hell he should do_.

“I’m sorry.”

Those were his brothers’ names, he knows.

“I didn’t mean to…” Tobirama says, moving to stand

Madara shakes out of his stupor and stops the Senju’s movements with an iron grip on his shoulders.

“Senju.”

“I’m sorry, I can send you back, I—”

“Senju, wake up.” Madara gives him another useless shake. “Tobirama.”

It feels odd to say his name, as if Madara is breaking some kind of taboo uttering it.

“I’m sorry—I missed you—I’m sorry…”

“Tobirama!”

There are tears falling down his face now, tracing blood-red tattoos. His eyes are unfocused, full of anguish, pained whispers falling from his lips as he struggles against Madara’s grip.

“I’m sorry… please, I—”

“Tobirama, wake up, goddammit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to date, all the chapters I have that I'm more or less happy with. The rest await the merciless massarce of editing x)


	4. dream and vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has to get worse before it gets better, it has to get worse before it gets better, it has to get--  
> basically me comforting myself through this freakin angst fest, why can't my writing be all fluff? >:c

_The grave’s mouth laughs unto derision  
Desire and dread and dream and vision,_ _  
Delight of heaven and sorrow of hell._

[Ilicet](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ilicet/)

* * *

Tobirama awakens with a whole-body shudder, eyes widening as he takes in the owner of the hands shaking him awake.

There’s something very wrong about the way Madara looks at him as he comes to, his eyes full of worry, a pained expression on his face. Tobirama fights to control his breathing but can’t quite calm himself—what with the nightmare visions still clawing at his mind and being incapacitated by the man who despises him.

He doesn’t understand where he is.

More importantly, he doesn’t understand what Madara is doing to him. Tobirama asks him as much.

“Keeping you from killing yourself, bastard!” Madara says, anger seeping into his tone this time. His hands tighten on Tobirama’s shoulders, gripping hard enough to bruise, and he gives him another shake for good measure. “You should be grateful.”

Tobirama would be, if any of this even made sense. It must be a genjutsu, and the fact that it wasn’t dispelling as he tried the usual hand sign pointed to an intricate illusion crafted by the Sharingan.

Madara only rolls his eyes.

“You’re not under a genjutsu,” he says, “you’re in my house. Your chakra has barely started to replenish itself.” Madara’s frown deepens for a split second before he sighs again and slowly loosens his grip on Tobirama’s shoulders, moving away to give him space.

Tobirama wastes no time scattering to the opposite wall, leaning against it for support, because Madara was right—he was still on the verge of collapsing. Even so, the adrenaline keeps him alert as he looks a little to his side, keeping Madara mostly in view, wary of what the man will attempt now that he has Tobirama at his mercy.

Of course, he should be prepared for this. He _had_ prepared for this because he knows nothing short of his death will bring Madara peace, but _not so soon_. Not when his jutsu is still incomplete and needs just a couple of days of work to dial it just right.

Nothing is going according to plan.

“You need more sleep.”

The words seem like an echo to Tobirama’s ears. Why would Madara care? What game is he playing? Why would Madara let him into his home?

“I’d like to leave,” Tobirama says, hesitant, cursing internally as his voice comes out as barely a whisper, “if I can.”

“So you can attempt that twisted jutsu of yours again?” Madara asks wryly.

“I don’t understand,” Tobirama says, furrowing his brows. “I was trying to help.”

_“Help?”_

_Madara doesn’t care for this peace, not really,_ Hashirama said to him once. _He wants Izuna alive, for him to be able to experience this with him. Without him… it’s practically meaningless._

Tobirama wonders if Hashirama would feel the same, had he, not Izuna, been the one to fall on the battlefield that day. Or if Hashirama would go through with it if Madara had demanded Tobirama’s death later, during their clan’s final confrontation, instead of giving Hashirama a choice. Somehow, Tobirama is sure Hashirama cherishes his dream far more than his one life.

It’s logical, too.

It’s his and _Madara’s_ dream, their shared vision of a brighter future. However faithful Tobirama may be to his brother and his endeavors, he is but a replaceable variable in this vision.

“How in hell,” Madara continues, voice deep and dark and heavy with barely constrained fury, “was that _helping?_ How do you imagine a technique like that ever working properly? How do you _see_ anything helpful in _defiling_ graves and _ripping_ dead things away from the underworld?”

“I told you it’s imperfect.” Honestly. Do people ever listen to him? “If I could—”

“What _?_ If you could _what?_ ” Madara is advancing on him now, his chakra a raging, uncontrollable storm of pain and rage intermingled, making it hard for Tobirama to breathe. “I saw the construct, I _saw_ the other corpse—it requires a sacrifice, doesn’t it? Whom, then, would you sacrifice to bring him back, Senju? Who gave you the right to decide—”

“Myself, of course,” Tobirama cuts him off, earlier panic giving way to prickling annoyance. “It would be unethical to use anyone else to that end.”

A pause. Finally, it seems as if Madara heard what he said instead of steamrolling through his words. Then—

“Look at me.”

Tobirama does.

There’s a silence, uncomfortable and suffocating, that falls around them as Madara’s eyes bore into his, so intense even without the Sharingan infusing them with power.

“You planned sacrifice yourself,” Madara says slowly, “to bring my brother back to life?”

Tobirama frowns, wondering where the trick is. Madara spoke with a hint of what seemed like awe, but wasn’t, not quite. Horror, maybe, with a touch of anger, even though—

“You want him alive, don’t you?” Tobirama asks, compelled to look away again, cursing himself for his reaction. Familiar tendrils of guilt clutch at his mind, whispers of _heartless, murdered, red-eyed demon, cursed_ rising from the depths of his subconscious and making him almost choke on his next words. _Calm_ , he orders his mind, _stay calm_. “I killed him, Madara. And I know it… hurts. I’m sorry, and I—”

“And you want to fix it?” Madara’s voice stays low and steady, despite that note of awe-horror still present in it.

Tobirama only nods in response.

_If only I hadn’t been interrupted._

He _hates_ it when life fails to comply with his plans.

The heavy silence falls again, and Tobirama forces himself to look at Madara’s face directly. It’s unreadable, save for his eyes, black and churning with ill-suppressed anger as he stares Tobirama down, both visible now with his hair pulled back, something Tobirama’s just noticed. Faint moonlight frames him, granting him an almost ethereal quality, and Tobirama must be more sleep-deprived than he’d thought as he catches his mind drawing parallels to the ancient god of the moon, powerful, spiteful and unpredictable.

“Does Hashirama know anything about this?” Madara finally asks.

Tobirama shrugs.

“He saw my notes for it, once. He disapproves for obvious reasons, but...” Tobirama shakes his head. Looks Madara dead in the eyes and asks the questions that’s been bothering him this whole conversation, “Why are you upset?”

“Because this would _kill_ you,” Madara says, quietly even as poison seems to drip off every syllable.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“And even if you somehow perfect it,” Madara talks over him again, making Tobirama growl in anger, “even if it doesn’t end up killing you—you’re attempting to summon back the dead _against their will_ , you freak! _How do you not see anything wrong with this?_ ”

“Isn’t that what you _want_?” Tobirama almost shouts, suppressing the spike of hurt that has his memories acting up again.

 _Freak,_ the whispers from his childhood haunt him, _red-eyed demon_ , the Senju children used to say on every street, at every corner Tobirama passed, until Hashirama shouted at or beat them into silence.

He usually has so much less trouble maintaining his self-control. He truly shouldn’t have let himself get this exhausted, but it’s hard, making sure he remains functional in the midst of all-consuming experimentation.

“It would make you feel happy, having your brother beside you,” Tobirama says, as if explaining a difficult concept to a kid, and all things considered, he may as well be. “You _demanded_ Hashirama either kill me or himself that day you were defeated. He almost killed himself because you gave him this stupid choice and you shouldn’t have. It’s _me_ that you want revenge against.”

Isn’t it logical?

Madara looks as if he could punch him but apparently decides to hold back, chakra swirling instead into the space around them, augmenting further in pulses of power so extreme Tobirama finds it even harder to breathe than before.

“You’re a fool,” Madara says. “And you need more sleep.”

Tobirama wants to snap at him for his stupid insistence on repeating this obvious and _useless_ advice but stops short as Madara’s eyes bleed into crimson and focus on his.

It’s almost tangible how his tenuous grasp of his self-control breaks.

“No.” Tobirama flinches, moving to step back only to end up pressing against the wall. He knows Madara is, at most, going to put him into a deeper sleep this time, probably isn’t going to hurt him, but he simply _can’t_. “Don’t, please don’t…”

The jarring influence of the Sharingan the first time around still lingers in his mind, sends tremors through his body, and if he was unable to prevent himself from being affected then, now, his chest constricts in sheer terror.

“Calm down, Senju.”

It’s easier said than done, when crimson-black eyes haunt him in nearly every one of his dreams.

_Itama and Kawarama’s faceless killers._

_Izuna with his eyes blown wide as Tobirama deals the fateful blow._

_Madara hunting him down and hurting him in the worst of his nightmares._

_Madara making him bleed and scream in torment unless he thinks of a miracle to bring his little brother back to life._

The real Madara is obviously not the same as the one in Tobirama’s dreams, but it makes sense that he’d want the same thing, all things considered.

Doesn’t it?

“Just let me go,” Tobirama pleads, feeling trapped, nearly paralyzed as he feels Madara advance. Even though Madara takes care to telegraph his movements, as confused by Tobirama’s reaction as Tobirama is sickened by it, it’s too much.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tobirama would have felt the lie in Madara’s chakra and it’s stupid for him to panic like this. Irrational. Even so, all he wants is to Hiraishin away _if only his hands would stop shaking and fucking move._

His heart races, a tight ball of panic winding itself in the pit of his stomach and he shuts his eyes closed, body tensing into a defensive stance.

“Tobirama…”

“LET ME GO!”

But Madara’s taken another step, the idiot, standing right before him, and Tobirama’s body reacts without him willing it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the read! :3


	5. unreconciled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meow, i'm a slow kitty >_<
> 
> VERY unexpected and annoying health problems, though manageable, kinda threw me off for a long time and the only thing i could do was draw because that's easier x)
> 
> but i'm finally getting back to editing the stuff i've written and continuing the two angst fests i've started on here, so here's a little update :3 the next chapter is longer, so is going to take a bit longer to edit and will maybe need a bit of rewriting; i'm getting back into my preferable writing style with my recent drafts, so the chapters I'd prewritten for this way may have to undergo... more drastic changes x) but i'm wayyyy energetic now that i'm feeling better, so i'll do my best to get to it as fast as possible. Still only in March, probably, because a lot February deadlines want to make me really dead xD 
> 
> anyways, excuse my rambling >_< hope you enjoy! :3

_Unreconciled by life's fleet years, that fled_  
_With changeful clang of pinions wide and wild,_  
_Though two great spirits had lived, and hence had sped_  
_Unreconciled_

[Discord](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/discord-3/)

* * *

Madara isn’t quick enough to block the punch that connects squarely with his face.

“Gods damn you, Senju!”

The anger surges up immediately, a sizzling, familiar thing, and his fist catches Tobirama’s shoulder, sending him tumbling against the wall as Madara crowds him against it, blood boiling and chakra sizzling through his body.

He can’t quite make himself retaliate further, though; images of Tobirama on his knees flash too brightly in his memory, the words spoken by the idiot just now a damning testament to how skewed Madara’s perception of him was. Instead, he grips Tobirama hard enough to restrain most of his movements, pressing him against the wall. Tobirama keeps trying to hit him, eyes squeezed tightly shut, shouts of pain when there shouldn’t be any, wheezes of panic when Madara is just trying to help.

He asks himself, yet again, why exactly he's trying to help. This absolutely insane behavior from an enemy he was sure he knew and understood throws him off, and Madara can’t begin to deal with it.

Put him to sleep again? Try to talk? Try to… dissect whatever it is that has the Hokage’s fucking brother treating himself like some expendable pawn?

It’s then that a familiar _warm—bright—lively_ chakra appears in the vicinity of Madara’s senses.

Tobirama’s eyes fly open and Madara, refocusing his senses from Tobirama to his surroundings, turns just in time to see Hashirama barge in through the half-open window. Mokuton vines follow his every move all the way from the trees outside, the woodwork of his house shaking as he lands, face twisted in anger like Madara had never seen before.

“What the hell, Madara?” The threat in Hashirama’s voice makes him shiver. “What the hell did you do to my brother?”

“Nothing,” Madara says, “I just—”

“You just what?”

“Anija,” Tobirama says, voice small and hesitant from where he’s huddled against the wall. “Anija, please…”

Hashirama looks torn between confronting Madara and rushing to his brother, finally settling on the latter as Tobirama crumbles to his knees, close to hyperventilating. Hashirama embraces him in his arms, holding him tight, whispering words of comfort in his ear, and Madara can’t do much else other than stare, dumbfounded.

“Did he hurt you, Tobi?” Hashirama asks.

“No.”

“I didn’t, Hashirama,” Madara says in the same moment. “If anything, _he’s_ a danger to himself.”

Tobirama clings to Hashirama as some kind of lifeline, which Madara supposes, he is. He chances to approach them and explain himself, opens his mouth to say something and promptly closes it as Hashirama turns to face him, face twisted in anguish the like of which he’d never seen on his friend’s face.

“He left a suicide note for me, you know,” Hashirama says, and Madara feels himself going stiff with shock for what is one of far too many times for one evening.

“A normal note explaining away his absence on a mission,” Hashirama continues, “and a secret note set to reveal itself to me in a few days.” Hashirama’s gaze is intense, imploring Madara to speak—and yet he can’t manage a sound, much less words at this point. “He thought I wouldn’t find it. He hid it well, but…” Hashirama narrows his eyes. “The trees speak to me. They worry.”

Madara’s thoughts are a whirlwind. His heart races and aches against his chest. He wills for all of this to stop, for just a little break from this unfolding madness, yet Hashirama, merciless, continues.

“He said I’d understand.” Hashirama’s tone implies the opposite. “He said that what he would do—he did for you, Madara. For you and your dream—and for mine.” He takes a breath. “Care to explain?”

Madara shakes his head.

He feels as if he’s in an alternate reality. A sick, twisted dream. He feels (and it’s with a crawling dread that he realizes this) _guilt_ chipping away at him for making Tobirama to end up in such a state, if unknowingly.

For making his last remaining brother’s _murderer_ end up in such a state.

He should be glad. This is, after all, what he wanted, as Tobirama pointed out. The satisfaction of revenge, of pain inflicted on the one who’d hurt him so.

He should be enjoying this.

Why isn’t he?

He realizes he’s speaking before his brain fully catches up to whatever nonsense is leaving his mouth.

 _I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. I_ never asked _for this. I never_ wanted _this. I don’t…_

(It’s right there on the tip of his tongue, like a desperate, childish attempt at redirecting blame— _he_ started it. But words of blame are what led to this disaster in the first place, accusations towards Tobirama for doing what Madara would have praised Izuna for. In Tobirama’s own words, impossibly, inexplicably, he wanted to _help_.)

_So you can be happy._

(He remembers, too, how much he’d wished for Hashirama to choose to kill his brother when Madara had given him the ultimatum between his and Tobirama’s life. He remembers how disappointed and disgusted with himself he’d been when Hashirama nearly committed suicide. He remembers, too, the look of utter panic on the younger Senju’s face and how he’d frozen in shock before rushing to save his brother—far too slow, far too panicked to use his Hiraishin as he screamed for Hashirama to stop.)

_So Anija can be._

But it’s wrong. So wrong and Madara feels sick just thinking about it, the hours spent washing blood off Tobirama’s skin that the idiot had spilled for _Madara_.

“I never wanted this.”

Madara wonders when and why exactly that desire to see Tobirama die had begun to fade away. Even as a tantalizing possibility, it was a double-edged sword; seeing Tobirama in the same torment as Madara rid him of his best (and only) friend. The reverse would, undoubtedly, cause Hashirama the same suffering he was feeling now.

Too much, too difficult, _too fucking confusing_.

His words are a jumbled mess, Madara knows, but can’t get a grip on himself, and so is faced with the rare, disturbing sight of Hashirama getting all the more annoyed as Madara fails to give him a coherent answer. His chakra is wild, splintering the wood around them, making roots reach to grasp at Madara’s ankles, aiming to trap him, and he barely escapes their clutches. Hashirama’s all but bordering on furious until—

“Anija.”

Hashirama instantly refocuses his attention on his brother, hugging him close once more. The roots still hover threateningly near Madara’s legs but he finds himself finally able to breathe again as the suffocating force of Hashirama’s chakra ebbs. Unsurprisingly, the flares of power seemed to have the opposite effect on Tobirama, who has partially regained the calm, collected demeanor Madara is used to, only his voice betraying how shaken he still is from all this.

“Just—take me away. Please.”

“All right, Tobi,” Hashirama says, tone soft and soothing, “all right, okay.”

Madara would be relieved once they leave—should be relieved—and yet there’s a certain emptiness as Hashirama takes Tobirama away without another word, without so much as a glance in Madara’s direction. He curses the world _and_ himself, flopping back onto his chair, far from ready to face another sleepless night but having no choice but to do so.

Gods know he has _a lot_ to ponder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am really surprised at how many people liked this story and cherish each and every comment. Thank you so much! <3 Meow :3  
> 


	6. joy was never sure (to be posted some time this june)

yoooooo it's been a long time cause my adhd brain cannot for the love of me keep up with all the wips i have that need to be written and i'm s u f f e r i n g б_б

rest assured though this story **will be finished.** Lmao, it kind of is already😂 the literal ending chapters have been written, as well as a lot of the stuff closer to the END of the story because... I'm a dumbass?? that??? writes like that???? I'm sorry asdfghjhgfdsdf

now, at first I wanted to put up the first part of chapter 6, bc that's the thing that I wrote a long time ago before getting distracted by the later events in the story. But it really works better if I publish it in its entirety, cause it's one of the 3 most important fucking chapters in the whole work. I'm _really_ sorry for the wait, BUT good news, i finally pulled my shit together and hauled myself to work on it, and it's almost done so - i'll hopefully get it out before madatobi week. One evening, and I've already written 2/3 of the rest, so I'll try to cram in the remaining bits of dialogue as soon as I'm able. Then once that fun ride of MTW is done away with, I'll go back to working on this and [Adventure of a Lifetime](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22462630/chapters/53672680) (ended up joining the next few chapters of that one for convenience) way more... LET THERE BE ANGST TO BALANCE OUT MY FLUFF ASDFGFDSDFGH

sorry, sorry, sorry for the delay to everyone who's reading🙈🙈🙈

and meow, I guess the only tease for the next chapter i'll squeeze out is the opening poem for it👀 or, well, the relevant excerpt from the poem that's been in previous chapters before:

_We are not sure of sorrow,  
_ _And joy was never sure;  
_ _To-day will die to-morrow;  
_ _Time stoops to no man's lure._

[Garden of Proseprine](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45288/the-garden-of-proserpine)

(yah, I'm a sucker for Swinburne. He was such a gay disaster. Oscar Wilde but squared. And gods, his poetry is just _*chef's kiss*)_

**Author's Note:**

> I will be eternally grateful for any comments and kudos you decide to throw at me <3 And if you'd like, come say hello and chat on [tumblr](http://louiserandom.tumblr.com) :3


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